


and i've missed your ginger hair

by croissantkatie



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: ACD does the plotting for you!, Gen, Joan and Bell are bros, Murder, Murder Mystery, taking Sherlock Holmes stories and updating them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2801735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/croissantkatie/pseuds/croissantkatie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's been a murder.</p>
<p>Or: The Adventure of the Red-Headed League.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i've missed your ginger hair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crescent_gaia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescent_gaia/gifts).



> with thanks to p for the cheerleading, f for all the plot help, and i and l for the beta.

As is so often the case, Holmes is standing over a corpse. Slightly more unusually, he is accompanied not by Bell, Gregson, or Watson but by Mycroft Holmes. 

Sherlock looks at Mycroft, eyebrows raised expectantly. He rocks back and forth on his heels as he waits for his brother to answer his question.

“No Sherlock, she is not my contact,” sighs Mycroft.

“Are you entirely sure? It would make perfect sense to kill the person who led MI6 right into the middle of a major crime ring.”

“I do actually remember what Marie looks like, Sherlock, and that most definitely is not her. Also, need I remind you that I’m not actually with MI6 anymore?” Mycroft sounds resigned, which is his normal reaction to being in the same space as Sherlock. After a moment he adds, “She’s ginger! Marie is not ginger.”

“She could always have dyed her hair,” points out Sherlock, sticking his nose up in the air. “Improbable I admit,” he rambles on, “a natural looking ginger is very difficult to achieve, it tends to come out more orange or red than occurs naturally, most tend to favour a more auburn look, but not impossible.”

Mycroft’s expression shifts from one of quiet resignation to outright frustration. “I am actually capable of distinguishing between different people’s facial features Sherlock, hard though that might be to believe for you. It is not Marie.”

Sherlock shrugs and steps around the dead woman, peering down at her. He leans in for a closer look at her hair.

“Definitely not dyed,” he says. He scrunches up his mouth and looks around the room. “For an art museum, it’s actually quite welcoming, despite how garish that painting is.” He gestures to the painting the woman is lying in front of. “Those colour combinations really do not work. Far too much orange.” 

He frowns at the painting. For something displayed so prominently, it is an astoundingly bad f orgery. The brushstrokes are all wrong for a start – clearly made with modern materials and not ones available in the late nineteenth century. It’s disappointing, really.

“Is the painting relevant, Sherlock?” asks Mycroft, growing steadily more impatient.

“Beyond the fact that it’s fake?” Sherlock says, voice lilting upwards to indicate the question.

“I am aware it is a fake, Sherlock. What exactly did you think I was looking into here? And before you ask, the dead woman has nothing to do with the forged artwork. To my knowledge.”

“Hmm. Interesting.”

Mycroft sighs. “Will you take the case or not?”

“As you are my brother,” Sherlock replies, dragging out the word ‘brother’ with a certain amount of disdain, “I will look into it.”

*

“There are several important things to remember about carvings of Jesus on the Cross: namely the number of nails, the presence of the spear wound, if Christ’s expression is serene or not…” Sherlock is pacing back and forth across the front room of the brownstone. The course of action he has decided on had not been his first choice but he considers his colleagues more than capable of pulling it off. So long as they listen to him at least.

Joan cuts him off with a sharp look. She is not in the mood to handle his inane rambling today. They are on a deadline. “Sherlock, I thought you said this job was about a pointillist painting.”

“Well yes, but to get to the relevant wing of the museum you will have to pass through the gallery on medieval Christian art. You would not want to seem ignorant if it came up as you passed through,” he explains, waving his hands around as he speaks.

“I really don’t think it’s going to be relevant Sherlock. You said I’m supposed to be an expert on late nineteenth century art, specialising in pointillism, not medieval woodwork.”

“Yes, but, see, it could come up!” he protests.

“Sherlock,” she sighs. “You are being ridiculous. There is no need to worry this much.”

“I am worrying a perfectly reasonable amount, Watson,” he objects, attempting to stand up straighter as he talks. Since he had already been standing stiff and upright, it doesn’t have much effect.

“No, Sherlock, you’re really not,” interjects Bell with a roll of his eyes. Sherlock pivots on the spot, turning to glare at Bell.

“And you, Bell! There are a number of things you should bear in mind. I wrote them down for you on post-its, if you’ll give me a moment to find them for you.” Sherlock turns again and shuffles around a pile of papers on the desk beside him.

“I don’t need your post-its. I am actually capable of doing research myself,” Bell responds dryly.

“Ah, of course you are, I would not mean to insult your detecting capabilities, rather I thought perhaps this particular area might not be very familiar to you so wanted you to be prepared.”

“I actually do know stuff about art, Holmes. I did a load of reading last night. This isn’t my first time undercover. So. I don’t need your notes.”

Sherlock’s shoulders slump. “My apologies. I did not mean to cast aspersions. I am merely worried as this is not exactly my favoured course of action.”

“We’ve got this,” Bell tells him. “No one at the museum knows either of us, we’ll be able to go in and gauge who at the museum knows about the forgery quite easily.”

“True, but I would still prefer to accompany you myself,” Sherlock mutters, looking down at the floor.

“A bunch of the museum staff saw you there with Mycroft,” Joan reminds him, tone only slightly impatient. “You know this. Marcus and I will be fine.”

“But what if you slip up about what those carvings are made from!” exclaims Sherlock, pacing once more.

“Well, given that the majority of the collection is from Germany, I’d imagine most of them are made from limewood given how easy it is to carve,” Bell interjects. “But that’s irrelevant. We’re leaving now.” He picks up his jacket from the coat hooks on the wall and stands by the door impatiently. “Joan?”

“Yes, we’re leaving,” Joan says, putting on her own coat. “Try and do some research into the dead woman while we’re gone. You might as well be vaguely useful.”

*

“So, you’re here to inspect the nineteenth century gallery?” the woman behind the reception desk asks. She speaks hesitantly and is clearly skittish. Her name badge helpfully identifies her as Nina and that she’s here to help. The badge even has a smiley face on it.

“Yes, as I said, I am writing an article about some of the works in your collection. My colleague, Doctor Watson, is only visiting New York for a very short time and I would greatly appreciate her expertise,” Bell replies smoothly.

“But well, you see,” Nina mumbles, “we’ve had to close off the nineteenth century gallery to the public for the moment.”

“Well, we’re hardly the public. I’m sure we could just pop in for a moment.”

“No one’s allowed in at the moment.”

“Surely we could just nip in? It would be such a shame to waste Doctor Watson’s visit.”

“I’m really sorry, Professor, but there’s been a murder, the police said we’re not allowed to let anyone in.” She seems reluctant to offer up this information.

“A murder?!” Joan gasps.

“Yes, it’s all been rather horrid and I’m dreadfully sorry but no one is allowed in that gallery at the moment. Even I’m not allowed in there.” Nina does look genuinely sorry to tell them this news. “I hope it doesn’t delay your work too much. It should only be closed for a couple of days at most.” She smiles apologetically, before excusing herself to talk to another visitor. “How can I help you?”

“Erm, yes, I was looking at the map and I can’t seem to figure out where I need to go?” asks the statuesque woman standing at the other end of the desk. 

Joan tunes her out. Clearly they wouldn’t be getting any further with this line of enquiry just yet. She raises an eyebrow at Marcus, indicating the exit with her head. Marcus shakes his head slightly as he watched Nina talk to the other woman who seems to be getting rather agitated. She shakes her head at the desk and turns around to leave.

“Are you alright, Ma’am?” asks Bell.

“What?” she replies as she looks around in confusion before seeing Bell. “Oh,” she says, a weak smile crossing her face as she brushes away a few stray tears. “Just, I was meant to be part of this art installation, but the gallery is shut. And well, I was going to get fifty bucks for it and I really need the money.”

Joan smiles sympathetically at her. “I’m so sorry to hear that. What gallery were you trying to get to?”

“Nineteenth century paintings, but, well, it doesn’t matter anymore, I guess,” she says. “Sorry, I really can’t hang around, I’ll have to see if I can pick up an extra shift now.” 

She turns to leave but Joan stops her. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?” The woman shrugs.

“I tend to be alright,” she says with another weak smile. “You don’t need to worry.” Her smile turns a bit more genuine. “Thanks for asking though.” She nods at the pair of them before making her way out of the museum.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Bell complains as they leave the museum just after her.

“Maybe not,” Joan comments. Marcus looks at quizzically but she just shrugs. “You never know.”

*

“Watson! Whilst you were gone my research into Jade Dawson has been most fruitful. Quite intelligent it seems, a student, but rather lax regarding security of her social media. Her Facebook was not particularly interesting, unless of course anyone wanted to watch a series of progressively more inane YouTube videos, but I was able to track down several posts by Jade on Craigslist. Most impertinent to our case being the advert she answered looking for red headed women to go and view “The Auburn Lady.””

“That’s the painting she was found by. The one I just went and tried to confirm was a forgery.”

“Yes. And I suspect Jade realised it was a forgery – she was studying art history and you hardly need to be an expert to spot it. But the advert itself! It wanted women to take part in a living art installation where they stood by the painting to, I can’t remember the exact words, but it was something about bringing art to life and engaging with new audiences. I’m not entirely sure if it was proper artistic terms or just a bunch of rubbish.” Sherlock had briefly considered investigating that but it seemed like a waste of time. The point was that there was no other information about the project online. No one claiming they were financing it, no one boasting about their newest installation. Nothing.

“

So Jade answered the advert.”

“Yes. And it got her killed.”

“You think the advert was placed so she could be killed?” Joan tilts her head to the side, thinking. It didn’t quite fit together for her.

“It definitely ensured she was at a certain place at a certain time.”

“But it’s not like the gallery is particularly secluded. Why kill someone there? And why kill Jade in the first place?”

“Excellent point. And the murder didn’t look particularly well planned. Even as bludgeonings go it wasn’t particularly neat.”

Joan moves round the table to peer at the crime scene photos which are on the table. She frowns. “Given how messy the wounds look, I’d have expected there to be more blood on the floor.” Her frown deepens. “There are streak marks on the floor there, right next to the body.” Sherlock snatchsd the photo from the table and looks at it himself.

“Yes, so there are.” He purses his lips. “Someone attempted to clean up around the body, but not get rid of the body itself. Odd.”

“Someone mopped up the blood around the body but didn’t move the body or attempt to get rid of it in any way. That’s not odd, that’s downright bizarre.” Joan pauses for a moment. “Who would have access to a mop?”

“Well, it depends, I don’t recall noticing if the cupboard with the cleaning supplies was locked or not. Regardless, knowing where the cleaning supplies are stored does rather suggest a member of staff.”

“So, we think it might be a member of staff because Jade realised the painting was a fraud?”

“It does seem the logical conclusion to me. But that fails to answer the question of why the advert was placed in the first place. The murder wasn’t planned. The advert was.”

“So, what do you suggest we do now?”

“Research! More research!” Sherlock was practically bouncing in place at the prospect. Clearly there was something about this case which he considered worth his time.

“Wonderful,” Joan remarks dryly.

“Watson, look into the murder itself – see if you can get hold of a list of museum employees, who was working then, that sort of thing. I will try to discern the purpose of the advert.”

*

“Have you got anywhere? Because right now I can give you a list of employees but no one has stood out for any reason.” Joan huffs out a breath, moving her laptop out of the way as she did so, stretching out her legs. It feels as if she hasn’t moved for hours, which is probably accurate.

“Everyone who answered the ad was in need of cash for one reason or another. Various people working multiple jobs, quite a lot of students,” Sherlock rattles off.

“Anyone unusual?”

“I think some of them might not actually be ginger.”

*

“Ahhh,” says Sherlock, sounding pleased with himself.

“What?”

“Morgan Richardson. Student. Ginger.”

“So far hardly unusual Sherlock.”

“What is unusual is that she really had no need to answer ads on craigslist for fifty bucks. Her parents are incredibly wealthy. However, Morgan has decided she wants to make a go of things by herself with no help from Mummy and Daddy. And whilst that is an urge I fully understand, I would perhaps wait until I had found gainful employment before doing so.”

“The point, Sherlock?”

“The point, Joan, is that, as you can quite clearly see from her facebook profile, she happens to have an original Du Marne hanging on her wall.”

“Didn’t Du Marne paint The Auburn Lady?” asks Joan. “The real one that is, not the one in the museum,” she amends after a moment.

“Exactly!” says Sherlock, gesturing expansively with his left hand.

“Exactly what?”

“This elaborate ploy was all set up so whoever placed the advert could steal Richardson’s Du Marne painting!”

“Elaborate is one word for it. I think convoluted would be more apt. And this still doesn’t help us find out who wants to steal the painting or who murdered Jade Dawson or even who forged the stupid painting.”

“But they’re all the same person! Or people I suppose. And this will lead us right to them!”

Joan raises her eyebrows at Sherlock.

“Ms Richardson’s slot to go look at The Auburn Lady is in two hours time. The thieves will strike then and we will be able to catch them in the act!”

“And the murderer?” she asks sceptically.

“I’m sure everything will fall into place.”

“Oh, that sounds like an excellent plan,” Joan mutters sarcastically.

*

“Bell, are you wearing a tweed jacket?” asks Gregson.

“Yes.”

“Why exactly?”

“Holmes.”

“Ah. I should have guessed,” Gregson says with a wry nod. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

*

Sherlock and Joan are standing in Morgan Richardson’s kitchenette in the dark. All things considered, Joan feels she spends an alarming amount of time standing in stranger’s kitchens in the dark. At least this time they had actually asked for permission first. They hadn’t even picked the lock. They had simply knocked on the door and with the help of Bell’s badge, all they’d had to do was ask. It was amazing where actually being official, instead of just pretending to be, got you. 

A slight scraping sound starts to come from near the front door. Sherlock raises a finger to his lips. Joan tilts her head and just looks at him. She knows to keep quiet without needing to be reminded. Besides her, Bell frowns at Sherlock and hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. Disapproval radiates off the pair of them. Sherlock, however, doesn’t look apologetic. He seems oblivious, focusing intently on listening to the sounds emanating from the next room. He spins on the spot, nodding at Bell who pulls out his gun and makes to round the corner.

“NYPD, hands up, you’re under arrest for breaking and entering,” Bell brings his gun up as he speaks, voice clear and strong. The two people standing facing the opposite wall freeze before slowly turning on the spot.

“Oh god, he’s got a gun,” said the smaller one. “He’s actually got a gun.”

“Shut up,” hisses the taller burglar.

“Please don’t shoot us,” the first begs. “Please.”

“I said shut up,” snaps his companion.

“You’re under arrest,” Bell repeats as he moves to handcuff the smaller thief.

“Oh god, oh god, the dead girl was an accident, I panicked, please don’t hurt me, I only work in the museum, I just wanted to be near the artwork, oh god,” he gasps, beginning to cry.

The taller one sighs, exasperated. “I should have known you weren’t cut out for this.” 

Bell appears to take no notice and handcuffs her as well.

“I told you everything would fall into place, didn’t I, Joan,” Sherlock comments, radiating smugness.

Joan rolls her eyes.

*

Sherlock carefully measures out two teaspoons of loose leaf tea and dumps it into a stout brown teapot. He pours the water from the kettle into the pot. He stares straight at the pot for precisely two and a half minutes whilst he waits for it to brew, completely ignoring the other occupant of the kitchen.

“Sherlock, from what Joan told me, recreating your own version of The Auburn Lady was hardly necessary for the case,” Mycroft says as he walks up to the counter to pick up his cup of tea once Sherlock has poured it. Sherlock glares at him as he adds two spoonful’s of sugar and a large amount of milk to his mug. “You really didn’t need to make your own just to prove you could do better.”

“Clyde likes it,” Sherlock says primly.

“Clyde is currently urinating on it,” Mycroft points out. Sherlock ignores him, walking into the next room with his chin in the air to give Joan her tea. Mycroft sighs. Again.


End file.
